


Wait

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to John. And tries not too think too much.  </p>
<p>Short reaction vignette after The Empty Hearse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait

Everything; _everything_ is in this room, and it is too much, he shuts it down, focuses. Narrows in on the details. Waiter, tie, water, menu, floor, decor, lighting; variables. He has not thought ahead, can not even, at this moment, remember the walk that got him here from the taxi (though it is obviously unimportant or he would have) and then there is the realization that he has not planned this. 

Not realization. He has known; decided. Better to whing it; see what would happen. Sherlock knows this with the same certainty he slides the patron's bow-tie from his neck and puts it on; smooth and confident. Better this way. 

Much better. 

John is at the corner of his eye, never closer, it would be a mistake to look directly at him but is important also to not avoid it - balance. Everything is about balance. Like heartbeat and breathing. (Tibet. That sojourn proved less boring and tedious than expected.) Glasses, good. That will help, so very little is needed. Only such tiny details, when you prepare to jump out of a cake. So very, very little is needed. 

Little, little details. Enough now. Yes. No?

Eyeliner. Easy, that too. And why not? A little extra. Flair, that's what it is. A little cherry on top; a lit candle. 

Breathing. 

And swing and move and he is close now and they are speaking. The accent does not matter, John will not notice until Sherlock wants him to. He will not. He's distracted, and there's something there, but Sherlock's focus is on _this_ , the game, it is a game, now. Their game. The right moment to jump out - it's so important. Balance, balance. 

(There is a box, John is hiding it, body moving with the awareness that it is there.) 

"I'll have that one, please."

Breathing. Sherlock pinches the cheap plastic frame of the glasses (replacement pair, will not be missed), keeping the tension in his fingers and regroups; all right. Not yet. The perfect moment. Balance. 

He snaps the menu, pulls it away and heads to the wine cellar, unnoticed. Leans against the cool, dark wood when the blonde part-time waitress from Leeds who thinks she's an actress but will never get anywhere - his head is pounding; focus - leaves him alone. Musty air fills his lungs, breath by breath. (Too musty. Wrong for the wine.) He bites his lip. 

This isn't how it was supposed to go. But he hasn't planned it. 

The champagne. Yes. 

Sherlock runs his hands along the shelves, fingertips screaming about texture and time and tell-tale marks and who have made them; he pushes harder to silence them. He knows where to find the right bottle, picks it up. Holds it in his hand. Closes his eyes. It has been a while since he's had champagne. 

( _The ambassador's office is quiet, sound-proof, and his wife knows no one will hear them if she yells in orgasm when he pounds her against the mahogany desk. Sherlock lets her consider that future a moment longer; he needs to see the papers in the bottom drawer, below the vodka and the pictures he thinks his wife does not know are there. Only a moment, he needs only a moment. He draws his fingertips across her neck and follows with his lips; she gasps in genuine surprise when they break down the door. He takes one last sip as they tear him away and down to the basement where-_ )

Sherlock's eyes snap open. He needs to move. He forces himself to. Slowly. (Middle age comes to us all.) Then faster. ( _Pounding feet, aching muscles. Darkness. Woods._ )

The woman is important, but they always are (this one is different) and John's body jitters with nerves and surprise. Sherlock slides in between them, speaks his lines, feels her eyes on him like John's are not. But then they are. 

This is what Sherlock knows about being noticed. It takes very little effort to avoid, but being so is an instantanious thing. It takes a fraction of a second, right now, in John's eyes as they turn from light to dark and narrow. 

Sherlock speaks, keeps the words flowing; it is a script, variables, he has a million lines to roll out. (She has noticed; she already suspects.) 

John rises. 

Sherlock meets his eyes. This he can do. There are some things for which Serbian terrorist torture can prepare you too, it seems. John's face twitches in flow of unspoken words, so Sherlock speaks to drown them out. Picks at anything. 

John is electric with held back kinetic energy. Sparks fly, as they say, though this could hardly be what they had in mind. They could touch. They will touch. Sherlock has narrowed down the potential scenarioes now, and there are not many. Not many at all. He rambles as he waits, eyes flickering. 

_Please. I'm sorry. Please_. 

John throws his hands around his neck, throws him to the ground and throttles him to relief. 

(It won't be enough, but Sherlock can make it happen again. And again. They need blood and split lips between them. That can be arranged.)


End file.
